


Repast

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [4]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-15
Updated: 2004-07-15
Packaged: 2018-10-21 06:59:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Repast

Great sentences from tiny drabbles grow ...  
  
The grey English rain came down at an angle, and that angle cut acutely across the exposed skin of Jack Sparrow's face whichever way he turned, reminding him of this weather's antithesis -- those blue Caribbean skies and the baking golden heat, and himself stretched out (naked, for preference) on the smooth, dark deck of his beloved ship -– but there was no escaping this rain, monsoon-like in its sheer persistence, nor the fact that it was filling the water-butts and barrels crowded onto the _Black Pearl_ 's weather-scrubbed decks as she lay anchored at the mouth of Leigh Creek, beneath the sagging walls of Hadleigh Castle (Shaftoe had muttered something about fortifications, but Jack Sparrow had read about the land sliding away in a great storm), while her Captain and his latest Guest went ashore in a jolly-boat: "Fancy a last taste of England, mate?" Jack had invited, very carefully keeping his face straight, and he'd watched as Shaftoe almost literally prowled around the offer, checking it for strings and snags and innuendo, before nodding curtly at Sparrow and scooping up his (doubtless weighted) dice from the slick deck where he'd been playing against himself; he'd proved a competent oarsman, if unpracticed at fighting his way across the vicious estuarine tide, and Jack Sparrow had needed to work harder than he'd planned before he could leap out, thigh-deep in cold, muddy water thick with rotting seaweed, and drag the little boat onto the shingled beach, white with cockleshells in the fading light; then Shaftoe's boots had crunched on the beach, and between them they'd hauled the boat into the moist shadows beneath a boat-house and made it fast to a beam as though it belonged there; then, "Where now?" Jack Shaftoe had asked, his expression (visible enough, despite the pouring rain and the twilight gloom) making it indubitably clear that he did not trust Jack Sparrow one inch, let alone as far as he could throw him; which turn of phrase, or rather thought, made Jack himself think of being thrown by Mr Shaftoe, thrown _down_ by him, upon (perhaps, just for example) the sun-hot deck of the beautiful _Black Pearl_ , or (much better) a heap of sail-cloth, shaken out beforehand to dislodge spiders and beetles, on said deck; and abruptly, despite the miserable weather, and his cold wet feet, and the way his breeches clung to his legs, and the stink of rotting fish and seaweed, and the steady trickle of rainwater that defied nature to fall inward from the brim of his hat and work its way underneath his collar, and (worst of all, really) that repressive expression on Jack Shaftoe's mobile, animated, interesting face ... despite all that, Jack Sparrow felt his blood rushing through his veins, surging much more impressively than the limpid waves on the beach behind them, falling over itself to get to his cock, which welcomed all and any carnal speculations with a salute for their inevitable main attraction, Mr Jack Shaftoe, Half-Cocked Jack, King (so they said) of the Vagabonds; who was glaring at Jack now as though waiting for something, ah yes; "an Inn!" said Jack Sparrow brightly, turning and heading up onto the sanded street behind the beach, "an Inn, and we'll have mulled ale and oysters, and whatever other peculiarly English delicacies this fine hostelry -–" he gestured expansively at the Bell, a wood-fronted building with a blue bell on its board "-– can offer us; for I'd hate for you to leave England without a last reminder of what you're leaving behind," which was too much too soon, of course, for Jack Shaftoe slammed open the door (thereby drawing far too much attention to the two of them: Sparrow winced) and snarled, over his shoulder, "Who says I'm going anywhere? You can't -–" so that Jack had to hush him, and steer him with grimaces towards a corner by the chimney-breast (at least they'd have a chance to dry out) and get him settled and quiet on his stool, trying not to think about why Shaftoe might be finding it uncomfortable to sit down -- it was less than two days since they'd left Southwark in such a hurry, and Jack Sparrow was already aching for different but complementary reasons, namely the urge to repeat the act that had left Shaftoe sore, though he'd happily swap roles if only ... well, some difficulty there, but he was sure they could come to some arrangement, some ingenious and inventive position or technique or -- damn it, thought Sparrow, trying to stretch his legs in such a way that he neither kicked Shaftoe (whose sullen silence, now he came to think of it, might well warrant a good kicking; 'twasn't as though he hadn't shown every sign of enjoying the experience) nor stretched the damp, traitorous material of his breeches against his half-hard prick; luckily the ill-favoured serving-girl thought herself the cause of it, and she simpered and wriggled against him quite shamelessly (he was pleased to see Shaftoe scowling blackly at him, through the crook of the girl's arm) until he'd persuaded her to bring them ale and a dish of oysters cooked the local way, with bacon; they sat in silence, steaming gently, until the food and drink arrived, and then Sparrow toasted Shaftoe cheerfully in ale that turned out to be not only cold, but unpalatably bitter; Jack held his tongue, though, and speared an oyster with his knife, trying not to watch as Shaftoe swallowed his first oyster whole, with every appearance of enjoyment -– oh, please let it be true, what the fishwives said about oysters feeding Lust! -– and wondering whether he could ever persuade Shaftoe to swallow anything with (they claimed, though he didn't notice it himself) a similar taste; oh, the thought of that ... but Shaftoe was speaking to him, and there was a smile on his face, the first Sparrow had seen since he'd brought the man aboard the _Black Pearl_ : "so you've a mind to carry me away, Captain?" he said, blue eyes narrowing, and Jack had to take another draught of the foul-tasting beer before he could say, with more confidence than he felt, "you'd miss what I intend to give you, mate, ever so much more than you could possibly miss -–" he waved a hand at the smoke-blackened walls, the scarred and hungry faces of the unsavoury locals, the girl at the bar, the outlandish weaponry (now he looked more closely, weren't those gelding irons?) that hung from the rafters; "-– any of this; and besides, it never rains like this in the Caribbean, and -–"; oh, Shaftoe was smiling at him, a genuine smile brimming with good humour and amusement and, maybe, promise –- couldn't be the beer -– and saying, "but, Captain Sparrow, you never asked if I'd like an all-inclusive, free excursion to tropical climes"; and Sparrow swallowed and said, leaning forward, "what'd you have said, if I'd asked?"; and Shaftoe looked at him, just _looked_ , for a long hot moment that made Sparrow twitch in his seat and lean further, so far that he almost overbalanced; and Jack Shaftoe grinned and said, "I'm not telling you in here; wait for me outside."  
Not at all sure about the dialogue-punctuation in this: any comments welcome!


End file.
